


How To Disappear Completely

by thefamousmrholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, John - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Sherlock, Sherlock - Freeform, deaded, ghost - Freeform, ghostlock, pre-Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:10:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefamousmrholmes/pseuds/thefamousmrholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghostlock AU told from Sherlock's perspective. Having died in the flat two years ago, Sherlock has seen many new tenants, but no one like John Watson, who turns out to be the only person able to see him. Sherlock finds himself real to another human again. Set pre-everything. Retelling from day one!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I would never look at these walls in the same way again. I knew I wouldn’t. This flat that had once been filled with such promise, such opportunistic hope of a life in the heart of London, at the epicentre of it all, was now set to be my cage, my prison until the end of time. Like a lion trapped behind bars, I was doomed to observe but never to pounce. The days of stalking my prey had been snatched from me in a heartbeat. My heartbeat. So I shall never look at these walls in the same way again, for a prisoner knows his cell, every crack, every graze. The sharpness of my mind won’t let me miss any details and I have already had a lifetime to memorise them. If two years can be called a lifetime.

It’s seems so odd to me now. Watching people as they get on with their lives. I used to observe and filter; watch for the details, the information and filter out the useless and the mundane. Yet what are the details now when I cannot put them to good use? So I watch, I watch every movement and hesitation of all the people who accommodate themselves around me. I find I get jealous of the little things, the ordinary things that I used to dismiss as being unimportant or a weakness of the body. I once found myself mesmerised by a woman making breakfast. Hot tea and toast. She was barely awake, padding around the kitchen in her dressing gown, yawing and half listening to the radio. I remember watching the teabag infuse in the water and the sight of the golden toast as she buttered it, and I remember feeling incomprehensibly anguished. It wasn’t fair. All of a sudden it wasn't fair. I would have given anything for twenty minutes. To wake up in bed again, stretch, haul myself out of the warm sheets, plod to the kitchen and feel ungrateful about having to provide my body with morning sustenance. Except I wouldn't be ungrateful, not this time, because I would know I had twenty minutes. One-thousand-two-hundred seconds of waking up to another day. And that is a beautiful thing to live. I can say that now though, I have all the time in the world to look back at what I would do differently and how I would appreciate the simple essence of being alive.

The flat was quiet now and had been for some months. The last tenants had moved out. I won’t lie, I can’t say I am not pleased they are gone, or that I may or may not have had something to do with encouraging them to leave, but it was nice to have silence again. As I stood in my living room, staring at the mark of my boredom on the wall, I heard footsteps approaching and heaved a sigh; probably the landlady. I’d better move to a corner somewhere and keep still, she’s easily spooked. The slightest rustle of paper or nudge of a chair and her eyes grow wild and she glues herself to the spot. She knows I am here, but she doesn’t want to believe it. Doesn’t want to entertain the childish idea that the spirit of the man who once lived here, still does in fact live here, and is responsible for gradually driving out all of her tenants. No, of course she doesn’t. It’s silly.

Before I could move, the door swung open and a gentleman walked in. He had a slight limp, psychosomatic. Late thirties, five-six, sandy hair, lightly tanned skin, ex-army. Afghanistan or Iraq..? Then he looked at me. He looked straight at me.

“Oh, hello.” He seemed slightly surprised to see me, so god only knows what my expression looked like. “Are you the, landlord?” He asked, briefly looking me up and down before glancing over his shoulder. Mrs. Hudson reached the top of the stairs and entered the room.

“So what d’you think, Dr. Watson?” She asked him, clasping her hands in front of her. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’d be needing two.” She added.

Dr. Watson stepped forward and looked around at the remnants of my belongings. He poked his head in the kitchen before coming to a satisfied conclusion.

“Yeah, it’s nice, could be very nice indeed.” He nodded. “How come you’ve put it on the market so cheaply? It’s a prime spot.”

_My prime spot._ I thought to myself as I eyed this man suspiciously. He looked at me again, his eyes then darting back to Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh it’s silly really, I’m just desperate for someone to live here longer than six months!” She told him.

“Why wouldn’t they want to? It’s practically central London.” Dr. Watson frowned.

“Well,” She sighed, obviously not wanting to tell him the facts in case it put him off, “I’ve had complaints, well, words from previous tenants,” She stepped closer to him, “They think it’s haunted.” She whispered, gesturing at the space around them. I rolled my eyes, and Dr. Watson laughed.

“Haunted?” He chuckled, “What like ghosts? Poltergeists?”

“I don’t know, people get a funny feeling, like a presence.”

“Right, well,” He looked around at the room again, “It will take a lot more than a ‘presence’ to put me off a well-priced flat in central London.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him.

“Oh lovely! Does that mean you’re interested?” She beamed at him.

“Yes, I think I am, definitely.” “Well you finish looking around. I’ll be downstairs sorting some papers for you.” She touched his arm gratefully, “Shout me when you’re done.”

Mrs. Hudson left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving me with this Dr. Watson. The man smiled at where she had been, and then looked back up to me again.

“So are you the landlord?” He smirked, entertaining the idea briefly, “Or landlady’s son?”

My mouth fell open and closed as I gaped at him like some sort of goldfish. Several thoughts suddenly rushed to me, such as how this was happening, or, momentarily, if I was even actually dead. I frowned, dismissing the latter, I knew I was. I hadn’t had any form of actual contact with another human being for two years. For the first time in my life, (well, I say _life_ ) I had absolutely no idea what to do. If I agreed with him, and said I was the landlady’s son, he might say something to Mrs. Hudson, creating a difficult situation before he had even moved in. Yet if I said nothing, or something completely irrelevant to this house then that would cause awkwardness, suspicion or panic. What about the truth? He would never believe the truth which would lead me straight into suspicion or panic. _Oh shit._

“Estate Agent.” I said suddenly.

“Ah, right.” Dr. Watson seemed satisfied with that. “Saw the photos of this place on your firms website; very nice.” He commented, taking another look around the rooms.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I simply smiled politely.

“Right, better go talk with the landlady then.” He concluded, pressing his lips together and giving me a military nod before leaving to find Mrs. Hudson.

I waited until I could no longer hear footsteps before exhaling and finally stepping forward, feeling the vice like grip of the ground release me and my body resetting itself from stunned. _Estate Agent. What the bloody hell was that?_ I huffed at myself. At least it wouldn’t directly tie me to Mrs. Hudson, but if Dr. Watson did move in, and could still see me, I was going to have to try and find a way to explain to him that I am not actually an Estate Agent, and that I am in fact the ‘presence’ that is ‘haunting’ this house. Although perhaps not in those words. And perhaps not straight away either. I can’t be seen again immediately, as soon as he has bought the house and starts moving in, that would definitely concern him… _Hmm. Why do I care? I don’t want another stranger living in my flat again._ Perhaps I should show myself again, try and drive him away the minute he steps back through the door - act more, ghoulish. Practice my ‘woo’ ing. _No. I can’t do that._ I saw the way he held himself, that look in his eyes as he saw the rooms and discussed the price; he needs this place. Army pensions are hardly much to live on, so finding cheap accommodation in London must be a god send.


	2. Chapter 2

Move in day. It must be move in day. Mrs. Hudson has been in the flat since seven AM and she has dusted everything. Literally everything. Not a bookshelf unnoticed or lampshade forgotten. She even looked as if she was going to remove my skull from the mantle piece, so I stood close to her and breathed down her neck to give her the chills. _Don’t touch my skull._ She briefly went into ‘startled deer mode’, looking around cautiously, chancing she might see me for once.

It was almost ten AM now and she had all but finished the dusting. That means Dr. Watson must be arriving soon with his stuff. _Hmm. How can I hide myself?_ I have never encountered this problem before. No one has ever been able to see me so I just moved around them, not getting in their way and ensuring that they didn’t pass through me or worse, sit on me. I strolled through my house, soon to be shared again. My old bed was stripped of the sheets leaving the mattress exposed to the air, and the room was bare of any personal items; all that was left were my large pieces of furniture that Mrs. Hudson had been allowed to keep as part of the flat, or “Do as she pleased with.”, as Mycroft had told her.

I remember the day my parents came to clear out my belongings. I remember it too well. I stood where I am now and watched as my mother slowly made her way around my bedroom. She began with the wardrobe, carefully picking out each one of my suits, feeling the fabric of my shirts, holding one up and burying her face in it to remember the smell of me. She shed tears then, and was unable to stop them as she snivelled around the room, collecting up my possessions. She took the few photo frames I had; two of myself and Mycroft, one as children on the beach - we had been taken on a family holiday, (the joys of it) I was building a sandcastle and he was pulling a face behind me, sulking, I believe. The second was more recent, a few Christmases ago stood in the kitchen at our parents house, fortunately having a few drinks made it more bearable to have a photograph taken. My third and final photograph was of myself as a child and Redbeard, our family dog, and my greatest friend. My mother had clutched that image so tightly her knuckles began to whiten. No mother should outlive her child. It took her two hours to pack my room away into two cardboard boxes, and I stayed with her the whole time, watching helplessly as she became more and more paralysed by sentiment. _Sentiment. What a cruel and vicious master you are._

I made my way back through the flat. As far as I was aware, the upstairs bedroom was completely empty. I used to use it as storage, but since that was cleared, only one other tenant since had used the room, and he used it as a gym! It was frightful; a row machine and a treadmill, and having to listen to him sweat it out three times a week. Never again. I couldn’t drive him away fast enough. However, now it remains empty, and unless Dr. Watson has mountains of belongings, or a child or partner that I did not deduce from him then I imagine he will have no use for it. _And so my prison shrinks…_ It will have to suffice while I figure out what to do about him being able to see me. _Why can he see me?_ No one else has, not even my family. Normally people can only detect me if I make myself obvious to them, which I do when they’re annoying, but he looked straight at me, eye contact, over my physical being as if I were real again. Alive. _But how?_

A taxi pulling up in the street below awoke me from my thoughts. Dr. Watson got out and lumbered two, medium sized suitcases with him. He paid the cabbie and looked hopefully up at the front door with a smile. You could almost see him inhaling the prospects of a new start. I made my way out to the stairwell and listened as the front door opened and the sound of suitcases being scraped along the floor followed.

“Mrs. Hudson?” He shouted, and I heard the jingle of keys in his hands.

“Ah, John!”

_Dr. John Watson._

“Do you need a hand with your bags? Have you got more stuff coming?” Mrs. Hudson enquired pleasantly.

“No, no. I am fine, this is it really. Not much to my name.” I heard him sigh.

“Okay, well I shall let you get settled in. I’ll bring up some tea.”

I listened as she scurried away and as the stairs began to creak as John ascended them. I moved up to the top floor, peering through the banisters as he got to the door. I shuffled and the floorboard beneath me squeaked. Freezing, I back up to the wall, but Dr. Watson hadn’t seemed to notice the sound. With nothing more for me to see, I made my way into the top bedroom. It was gloomy and dusty. A thin net curtain hung in the window, obscuring any light that filtered through. I sighed and sat down on the bare floor to listen. I soon began to pinpoint John’s movements around the flat; which floorboard he was stepping on, which room he was in, what direction he was facing. The sounds were faint for a while so he must be in my bedroom. _Well, I suppose it’s his bedroom now_. But they soon became more central, kitchen, and then a little off to the side, living room. A strange rattling sound masked my hearing of any of his further movements. The rattling got louder and louder and was accompanied by careful footfalls. _Mrs. Hudson and her famous tea tray._

“Was that really all your things, John?” She asked him with a clunk of the tea tray.

“Yup.” John answered. “Up until recently I haven’t needed things. You got given everything in the army. So being back is strange; collecting together my belongings, realising I couldn’t live the rest of my life out of a bedsit.”

There was a pause.

“This place really was a find, y’know? The price, the furniture. Is this all yours?”

“Well technically, it is now. It used to belong to a chap who lived here years ago.” Mrs. Hudson stumbled over her words, “But he, he died. Awful, really really awful. His family cleared out his personal effects, but they said I could do as I pleased with the larger pieces of furniture. Didn’t know where to start to get rid of it, and its not really bad stuff.”

She went on and on as she did when someone engaged her in conversation. I filtered out her babbling until I heard John’s voice again.

“So is that why previous tenants thought the place was haunted? Because a man who lived here died?”

“Yes I think so.” She laughed. _Well, squawked._ “It’s silly really.”

I looked at the sunlight streaming across the floor as I sat against the wall. About three o’clock. The conversation had stopped and Mrs. Hudson had left. Even John had gone out, probably to a supermarket, so I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and snoop around. The living room now felt a little more lived-in. There was a checkered blanket on the back of the red chair by the fire, a few books inhabited the bookshelf - _Lord of the Rings trilogy, dull. The Hobbit, not so dull, I always liked the dragon. A few Terry Pratchet books, not so dull. Casino Royal, dull. Far From The Madding Crowd, fairly typical. A dictionary, often owned, rarely used._ A laptop sat on the table, open at a website titled ‘The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson’ _. Interesting… but there is only one entry; a nudge from his therapist. How thrilling. I wonder what the ‘H’ stands for._ I walked through to the kitchen where an empty fruit bowl now sat in the centre of the table. A radio was perched on the counter top next to the kettle and a mug with a picture on. Although not just a picture, an insignia. The insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps. ‘In Arduis Fidelis' or ‘Faithful in Adversity’. _So, army doctor. Psychosomatic limp. Therapist. Wounded in action… but still, Afghanistan or Iraq..?_

I heard John return with the rustle of shopping bags before I had a chance to explore his bedroom. _Ordinary human errands._ I frowned, quickly making my way back upstairs to my smaller prison, I wouldn’t be able to rummage through his fridge like I had with previous tenants. You can tell a lot about a person from what they have in their fridge. The shuffling in the kitchen eventually died down. I laid on my back, already seething with boredom and no where nearer to finding a solution to the him-being-able-to-see-me problem. Footsteps began on the stairs. My stairs. He was coming up here. _Why? Oh shit._ I leapt up as quietly as I could, still managing to creak a floorboard and desperately looked about. _There was literally nowhere to hide. Not even an empty old closet_. He reached the other side of the door, his hand was on the squeaky handle. I dashed over to it and flattened myself to the wall next to the hinges, and as the door swung open, I was concealed by it. _I feel like I am in a cheap horror movie._ I gritted my teeth as he walked over to the window. This room was empty, and so long as he was satisfied by a quick look around, my hiding place may be safe. Fortunately he was, and he was soon standing in the doorframe again. I peered at his face through the gap between the hinges. _Family troubles. Few friends. Knowledgeable. Shoulder wound, left. Stoic. Hard working. Retired. New-found civilian._ The door closed and his footsteps fell away, leaving me in the solitude again. I cannot hide up here forever.


	3. Chapter 3

“Damn my leg!”

A yell and the sound of shattering crockery roused me from my dormant state. I opened the door quietly and curiously hung over the banister, as if I were going to be able to see something that was happening in the kitchen.

“Shit, shit, bloody stupid leg…”

I could hear John muttering and scraping around the pieces of whatever had broken. _Not a great start to the day, even worse considering the night he had…_

I had been pacing around long after he had gone to bed last night and went again to stretch my legs to the lower floor. I decided to pick up from where I had left off earlier in the day; the kitchen. I dully opened the now-stocked fridge, letting the light flood out into the room as I peered in. _Beer. Jam. Butter. Milk. Lemon Yoghurt. Grapes - who puts grapes in the fridge? Block of cheese, some broccoli, an onion, some chicken and some leftover pasta salad. Sparse, nothing thrilling. Basic essentials._ The freezer was even more boring. I lazily scouted through the rest of the cupboards. _All single-man typicals, all basic human typicals. You can tell he is ex-military, used to a simple diet so, not used to being able to stock a kitchen with whatever he feels like eating because meals were always provided at a canteen base, and were probably nothing fancy - just grunt power food. Stodge._

A short, startled cry tore through the silence and almost gave me a heart attack. (Ironic, in a sense.) I stepped back past the table, nearing the living room and peered through the hallway to the bedroom. _Now that noise was either painful or, ahem, sexual… Although it didn't sound like the latter from what sounds I’ve heard other tenants make._ My mind was soon made up when I heard the creaking of floorboards and the rattle of the door handle. There was no time for me to escape upstairs as the bedroom door opened and John emerged into the house. I backed up quickly into the darkness of the living room, concealing myself left of the dividing doors in the shadow of a set of shelves. _Good; he left the living room door open so I can dash upstairs if he comes this way._ John sighed heavily and steadied himself on the fridge door. He flicked the light on, pushed a shaking hand through his sandy hair and took a few deep breaths. The fridge door rattled as he opened it with uneasy fingers and took out the bottle of milk. He placed it on the side by the kettle and switched it on, getting his army mug out of the top cupboard.

I watched as he sat solemnly at the table, hands around his mug of tea. He was staring thoughtfully down at the insignia, his face expression quaked yet he sighed and a small, almost proud smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He exhaled again and closed his eyes, tilting his head up stoically. _I wonder just what kind of hell this man has endured?_ I found myself leaning forward. I had sudden sympathy for Dr. Watson; he was trying so hard to remain still, to breathe and control his thoughts, yet now his arms were shaking on top of the table and his face was damp with tears. I wanted to sit with him. I wanted to offer a hand to him and let him know that he was alright, and that he was safe here. He looked so lost and so alone. _And you think you’re trapped…_

Dragging his feet, he soon returned to bed, switching the lights off as he past and leaving the house in darkness again. He had washed up his mug and put it away, leaving things how he found them, almost as if he was never even there. I looked around the looming darkness of the flat and felt heavy with what I had just witnessed, so I quietly returned to my space.

Eventually I heard John sigh again and the noise of the kitchen bin, accompanied by the clatter as the pieces of whatever-it-was hit the bottom. I returned to my room and quietly shut the door, walked over to the window and sprawled out on the floor in the wash of sunlight that fell through the glass. I could hear the shower running now and not long after, the sound of purposeful footsteps and the jingle of keys. _He must be off out. Now is the time, I must seize my opportunity._

 _Right. Plan._ I had been thinking about this for approximately nineteen-hours now and decided that my best plan was to wait for him to leave, and then be casually sat on a chair when John returned. It will be less scary for him, he might still remember me as the ‘Estate Agent’ and think Mrs. Hudson let me in to talk about something house related. From here, I can explain to him that I am in fact not an estate agent, or actually even alive or visible to other people. _Yes, excellent plan! Precautions for minimising fear, I will appear ordinary looking, no jumping out of nowhere like something from Ghostbusters, and we will be able to sit and have a civilised conversation about this._ I smiled to myself and started down the stairs. This could only go well.

I sat in my old leather chair, and stared out into space, thinking over just how I was going to phrase everything, when I heard Dr. Watson’s familiar footfalls enter the house. I shuffled a little and stood up, straightening myself out. _Right, this is it._

“Oh, hello again.” John addressed me pleasantly, yet looked quizzical. “Estate agent.” He suddenly clocked me. “Did Mrs. H. let you in? Is there a problem?”

“Uhh, not exactly, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t let me in.” I cleared my throat, feeling everything that I had planned to say escape me.

“Right… have you still got a key?” He let out a small, concerned laugh as he removed his coat.

“Something like that…” Technically that wasn’t a lie, I did still own a key to this flat; its just hidden in a slot carved in the outside wood of the front door frame.

He stared at me and I felt the ground cementing me to the spot again. _This is ridiculous. I cannot simply say ‘My name’s Sherlock Holmes by the way and I’m not an estate agent, I’m actually dead!’_

“So is there a problem with the flat?” He asked again.

“Depends on your definition of a problem.” I swallowed.

John sighed and his face fell slightly.

“Right, well, um,” He ran a hand through his hair again. Exasperated tick. “Can we discuss it over tea or something?”

 _Hmm, no, no not really._ I didn’t have time to respond before he took a step toward me and extended out his right hand.

“John Watson, by the way.”

I felt my chest tighten as I instinctively reached out my right hand to take his, and his palm passed straight through mine. Warmth from his fingers briefly encroaching on my presence, and cold air no doubt passed over his hand. He recoiled in shock.

“What the- what the fuck? What the fuck.. is.. fuck…?”

He backed so far up that he almost fell over the coffee table behind him. His breathing was harsh and the colour drained from him slightly but, amazingly, he held his own ground.

“I, uh,” I hesitated, “I am not an estate agent.”

His eyes were feral as he looked upon me.

“I live here.” I continued.

“Wh-what?” John breathed.

“The presence. The presence Mrs. Hudson told you about, that she got complaints about.” This was far more difficult than I imagined. “I am said entity.” I pointed at myself. John looked at a loss, and I felt at a loss.

He laughed, his eyes remaining fixed on me, a heavy, breathy laugh. “Fuck off. Is this some kind of joke?” He stepped forward slightly, clenching the hand that had slipped my contact. “Did I eat something funny? Are there projectors in the ceiling? Has someone spiked my tea?” He glanced around, expecting to see some crafty technology.

“No.” I murmured, shaking my head slowly.

John took a breath, walked purposefully up to me and stood before me. His face was hardened and his eyes darted over me. I could almost see his brain working, trying to figure me out.

“So you’re not the estate agent.”

“No.”

“You’re a ‘presence’.”

“Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows at me and stared, disbelievingly before laughing and turning away again. _What was so difficult to grasp about this? I had just proved this to him by not being able to touch him._

“What is so funny?” I asked, starting to feel impatient.

“You expect me to believe this?” He gestured at me. “No no no, I am not a well man…” He pressed his palms into his eyes.

“You may be suffering some post traumatic stress disorder from your military days but I can assure you I am not a fiction of that.”

He slowly stared up at me, the wild look returned to his eye.

“How the hell do you know that?” He whispered.

_Ah deductions. Probably not the best move. Well done, Sherlock. You’ve really chucked yourself into shit-creek now._

I buried my face in my hands briefly.

“Oh god, look, that’s not important now!” I stated, “What’s important is that we figure out just _how_ and _why_ you can see me.”

“Yeah, I know ‘how’ and ‘why’; because I have either eaten something, I am dreaming or this is some bloody practical joke!” He snapped.

I sighed, exasperated already.

“For God’s sake, John. I am serious!” I exclaimed impatiently. Silence fell between us and he studied me for a moment longer.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I died in this flat two years ago. I cannot leave here, but in all the time that I have lingered, no one has ever been able to see me.” I paced with annoyance. “Not until now. Not until you.” I stopped before him. “So the question is, how? Why?”

John held my gaze as I stood before him, his expression was gradually softening yet those soldiers eyes were not so willing to let the guard down. He slowly held a hand out again. I huffed, but obliged him by holding out mine. He carefully tried to grasp it, with no success. He clutched at my palm a few times, as if trying to hold thin air.

“This is impossible.” He whispered, staring down at our hands.

“I’m not sure I believe in impossible any more Dr. Watson, just varying degrees of likelihood.”

I let my hand fall back to my side, the tickle of warmth from his hand was annoying. It made me jealous of life again. He looked back up at me again.

“I can see you so clearly.” He remarked, “You’re not translucent or airy.”

“I’m not a cartoon, John.”

“Sure about that?”

I rolled my eyes.

“So I can see you?”

“Evidently.”

“And no one else can?”

“No. They cannot.”

“Care to prove this to me?”

“Fine. Call Mrs. Hudson and we’ll conduct an experiment.”

I turned and walked over to the fireplace. John thought for a moment as he looked at the doorway. He eventually shouted for Mrs. H.

“Is everything alright dear?” She asked as she doddled in.

John looked over at me and Mrs. Hudson followed his gaze.

_Please don’t tell me he was about to ask the classic ‘can you see that man?’ line._

He waited for a moment, switching his attention between me and the landlady who looked more and more perplexed.

“What? Is there something wrong with the fireplace?” She asked him, stepping toward me and the mantle.

“Um, yeah,” John cleared his throat, finding an excuse. “I think the woodwork might be crumbling a bit.”

I stepped aside before Mrs. Hudson passed through me and watched her as she examined the wood. She shivered.

“Ooh, its a bit nippy over here love.” She commented and looked around, “There must be a through draft somewhere.”

I raised an eyebrow at John who was staring at me, unblinking.

“The mantle is a little old, but I reckon its got a few more years. It’s a bit holey from a previous tenant - he used to stick knives in it!”

“Who used to stick knives in it?” John asked, amused.

“The man who lived here but died.” She shook her head and tutted as she remembered me. Dr. Watson glanced at me again.

“What was he like? That man?”

“Well he was quite extraordinary really.” She smiled, “Always dashing about and on to something or another, he used to work with the police a bit. He was very clever, but,”

_But?_

“But he could be insufferable!” Her smile faded and she became slightly exasperated. “The mess he left everywhere! Stabbing the mantle, he put bullets in my wall, there’d be papers and science equipment and chemicals everywhere!” She huffed and John laughed.

“What did he look like? Was he young? Old?”

“Quite young. Too young really, that’s why its such a shame…” The annoyance left her expression. “Tall, dark curly hair, very handsome really. I half expected there’d be a different woman here every night, but there never was.” She let her thoughts settle. “Yes. He was certainly one of a kind.”

She made her way back over to John and the door.

“I bet he was.” John coldly agreed. “Thanks, Mrs. H.”

With that, she had left again, leaving John to puzzle over his new found facts.

“Satisfied?” I asked, “You wanted proof, and she has provided it for you.”

I sat down on my chair and he slowly joined me, sitting in the chair opposite.

“How are you doing that?” He pointed at the chair. “I can’t touch you, but you’re touching something else solid?”

I glanced at the leather beneath my hands.

“I am able to interact with inanimate objects. I can’t tell you why I can touch things and not people because its never been a question that has needed answering. _Until now._ ”

John sighed and sat back in his chair.

“Right… well.” He pressed his lips together in a hard line. “What are we going to do about this? How is this possible?”

“I have absolutely no idea, about any of it.” I paused, meeting his gaze again. “Need a roommate?”

He sighed a laugh.

“Looks like I am getting one whether I like it or not.”


	4. Chapter 4

John and I had been talking for some time about my presence in this flat and involvement with other tenants. I told him all about the people who lived here before him, all like Mrs. Hudson, who went about their daily lives without ever realising I was there.

John came back into the living room with his third cup of tea since we began talking.

“How did you know?” He asked as he settled back down in his chair, hands around the warm drink.

“How did I know what?”

“About my post traumatic stress disorder? And the army?”

“I noticed things. It’s fairly obvious; all you have to do is look at you and around this flat. There are some telling signs.”

“Really?” He glanced around. “Like what exactly?”

“Well, for starters, your mug.” I pointed at the insignia, “Royal Army Medical Corps. That’s the most obvious, but was not the first thing I noticed.”

“What was the first?”

“You. The day you came to view the flat; tan - but no tan above the wrists, you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. Military hair cut. You have a slight limp that’s obviously uncomfortable but you never once sat down the whole time you were here, like you had forgotten about it so its at least partly psychosomatic, so the circumstances of injury must have been traumatic, and tying in the other facts; something to do with war… but I do have one question that’s bugging me…”

John was staring at me.

“You’ve got a question?”

“Yes. Afghanistan or Iraq?”

He stared a moment longer before blinking and clearing his throat. “Afghanistan.”

I nodded. _Nice to finally have a clear picture._

“Bloody hell…” he mumbled. “How did you know all that by looking at me?”

“I look for the details and apply them to what is logical. It’s hardly difficult.”

John slowly took another drink of tea.

“I also saw you last night.” I began cautiously.

John stared at me again, already knowing what I was referring to. He put his now empty mug on the table next to him and shuffled a bit in his chair, getting comfy again.

“Nightmares?” I asked, quietly.

“Occasionally, yeah.” He sniffed and cleared his throat. I pressed my lips together and nodded.

“Seen a lot in your career? Injuries? Violent deaths?”

“Enough for a lifetime, far too much.” He folded his arms. Silence fell around us.

“Oh… Oh!” I frowned and leaned forward in my chair, looking closely at John. _Yes. Yes! Maybe. No… maybe. YES. It’s a very plausible explanation…_

I got to my feet, steepled my fingers at my lips and paced.

“What?” John was suddenly alert and watching me closely.

“People.. People are so ordinary, with their ordinary lives and jobs. They don’t know, they don’t understand, why would they?”

“They don’t know what?” He asked impatiently. I stopped pacing.

“They don’t know about death. Not really, not in the same way, or on the same scale as someone who was, say, a military doctor, would.”

“What are you trying to say?” He shook his head, perplexed.

“The average person will most likely never see a dead body. They wouldn’t ever want to. They understand that people die; everyone will experience the passing of family and loved ones, but they don’t understand death. Most people know that you’re either alive or you’re dead. Few people truly understand the transition between the two.”

Dr. Watson’s eyes hardened and his expression became more reserved. He swallowed hard. 

“But you do… don’t you?” I said quietly. 

“Yes.” He murmured. “But what about regular doctors and nurses, medical people? They understand death; I’m sure they see it everyday too. Why does being a military doctor make it any different?” 

“Because you’re not a general doctor and general doctors and nurses deal with patients who are absolutely nothing to do with them. Whereas you, military doctors; armies and battalions are like families, no? The men and women who were your patients, the people you have seen die, will have meant something to you.” 

John clenched his jaw and looked away. He curled his fingers in his lap. 

_ Struck a chord. Perhaps a little too much detail, more than he wanted to think about.  _

I went and sat back down in the chair opposite him. He had managed to hold back his tears. 

“What’s it got to do with anything now?” He whispered. 

“Perhaps it is the reason why you can see me.” 

He quickly looked more interested again. His eyes searched mine as he thought about it. 

“You may not know the circumstances of my death, but you’ve seen enough to know exactly how I got here.” 

He stopped searching my face and sighed, his gaze falling away. He nodded once. 

“Yeah.” I could see him thinking about things he wanted to forget. “You could be right.” 

A sing-song hum came from the doorway. I glanced up to see Mrs. Hudson with Inspector Lestrade standing behind her. John noticed them and quickly got to his feet, shaking off our conversation and proceeding to act like I wasn’t there. 

“Sorry, John. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Mrs. Hudson shuffled about and walked in, Lestrade followed her. 

“No, not at all.” 

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

They shook hands. 

“Mrs. Hudson tells me you’re her newest tenant.” Lestrade smiled, looking a little distracted. John nodded. 

“Is there a problem, Inspector?” John asked. 

“No no, well,” He shuffled a bit, looking around the room. “I used to know the guy who lived here a few years back before he died, Sherlock Holmes. He helped us out down at Scotland Yard from time to time. Called himself a ‘consulting detective’.” He laughed lightly and I groaned at the memories of his incompetence. John’s ear twitched as he tried to ignore me. 

“Anyway, I am looking for something of his - a notebook he had when we were on a case a before he died. I asked his brother if he had taken it when his family cleared out his stuff, but he said he hadn’t seen anything, so it might still be here somewhere.” He was positively itching to start looking. _It will undoubtedly take him centuries to find it._

John took a step back and shrugged. 

“Well, feel free to look around. I can help you if you want? What did it look like?” 

“It’s just a black, leather notebook, about A5 size.” He made a shape with his hands. 

They began looking around the room and Mrs. Hudson slinked away unnoticed. John glanced at me and frowned.

“Any idea where he might have kept such a thing? You knew him.” 

“Well he was a bit hap-hazard…” Lestrade commented as he searched the draws by the window, I shot him a look. “He kept everything everywhere.” 

I scowled at him and stood up. _I was going to help them, but I think I’ve changed my mind_. 

John watched me momentarily as he searched the bookshelves, his expression was asking me where it was. I folded my arms and smirked. 

“Why is it important now?” John asked the Inspector. “You said it was a case you worked on before he died? That must have been years ago?” 

“It was - two and a bit now.” He replied, “But the case was never solved, we could never track down the right guy, but we might have got him now and I know Sherlock was on to more than he was telling me, he always was.” 

John shot me another puzzled look. I remembered this one. 

“The Changing Alias.” I told him. One of the most infuriatingly bizarre cases I have ever encountered. I had a change of heart about helping them find the notebook. I walked over to the little cabinet by the sliding doors and pointed at the drawers. 

John walked over and began opening them one by one. He tried the bottom one but it was locked. 

“This one won’t open. Do you think he would have locked it away?” 

_ Yes. That is precisely what I did. I wonder what else I left in there?  _

Lestrade strode across the room and crouched down next to him to examine the drawer. 

“Well it’s definitely possible.” He felt his pockets, searching for something. “Do you have a pocket knife or a screwdriver or something?” 

“ Uhh, yeah, hang on.” John went to the kitchen and retrieved a screwdriver from a drawer.  He handed it to Lestrade who forcefully broke in to the cabinet. 

_ Behold. My notebook exactly where I left it. I peered in over their heads. Emergency cigarettes - god I miss smoking - golden pocket watch I acquired after solving a dispute for a French diplomat, DI Lestrade badge I pick pocketed when he annoyed me…  _

Lestrade took the notebook and thumbed through it. 

“Is this yours?” John held up the badge, reading the name. 

“I wondered where that one went.” Lestrade huffed and pocketed the item. John laughed and they both got to there feet. 

“Thanks for this!” Lestrade looked purposeful again. _Well, purposeful for him which is about as purposeful as a dead cat._ “Best get back to the yard.” 

“Yeah of course,” John walked him to the door, “Good luck with the case.” 

I pushed the now battered draw closed again so the cigarettes would stop staring at me. 

“‘Consulting Detective?’” John turned to me, trying to conceal a smirk. 

“Yes. I invented the job, so when the police are out of their depths, they can consult me.” 

“Right… but isn’t that, I dunno, illegal or something? I mean your not an officer, well weren’t an officer.” 

“No but you’d be surprised how unimportant that little fact was when it came to catching serial killers.” I smirked at him and rolled my eyes. He laughed a little disbelievingly. 

“So this case then, what did you mean ‘The Changing Alias?’” John asked. I thought for a moment. 

“Some time ago, there was one man who committed a string of identically executed murders.” I began telling him. 

“He would then contact the papers from an untraceable source and tell them there had been a murder and give them a fake name of the person ‘whodunnit’ - but the names were never fake, he used real, living peoples names. So, the papers would believe it and publish the name of the ‘murderer’ along with the story because the murder was true. It was a nightmare - the police kept buying it too, bringing in these named people who were completely innocent. It was only after a few murders that I could recognise the pattern in the killings and see that something was wrong, that it couldn't be all these separate people murdering in exactly the same fashion.” I paused a moment. 

“I figured out every detail of this murderers elaborate ruse…” 

“God…” John commented. “What happened to all the innocent people? The ones who were framed?” 

“They were eventually released, but it was a media nightmare. With the papers involved from day dot, they followed everything closely, and there was uproar when the public thought these ‘murderers’ were being released back onto the streets. It took forever for Scotland Yard to set the record straight, and have to admit that they hadn’t actually found the real killer.”  I smiled to myself and sat in my chair. 

“Well not until now.” 

“You think Inspector Lestrade has found the actual murderer?” John asked, pointing at the air that the Inspector had occupied. 

“No!” I laughed. “I did.” John’s face crumpled in confusion. 

“Justin Vankirk.” I told him. “I found the man. I was a few weeks ahead in the investigation and had been following him for some time, I suspected it was him, and my calculations proved correct. I just never had the chance to personally inform Lestrade… fortunately I kept a note of things, and even wrote down the mans name so it shouldn’t be too hard for him to follow the clues…” 

“So you solved the case, but died before it could ever be officially solved?” 

“When I solve it it is officially solved!” I gave him an affronted look. He opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but instead sighed. “It took them long enough to think it through without me though.” I tutted and exhaled. 

My head was filled with thoughts about all the criminals that could have been put away if I was still out there playing the game. I shook them away. Now was not the time to be nostalgic for a time long past. 

“That’s what you did then?” John was sat down in front of me again. 

“You solved crimes as a Consulting Detective for a living?” 

“Yes.” 

“But surely the police didn’t pay you?” 

“No, but I took on some private cases; the figures there were more than adequate to get by on.” 

John raised his eyebrows, contemplating a handsome salary. _I imagine I will have made a lifetimes military wage from just a few cases._

“Perhaps you should be one…” Thoughts began swimming in my mind. _If only I could get back out there. Have a link to the outside. A pair of eyes, a voice…_

“Me?” He laughed, “A detective? I wouldn't know where to start!” 

“Then perhaps I should teach you” I smiled, “Teach you the Science of Deduction.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated this in forever! I am just reposting this chapter again because of a spacing issue I have finally gotten around to addressing. I hope to try and pick this story up again soon!

He was utterly useless. We had been practicing every day for a week now with little improvement in his skill. I would spring items on him at random times in the day and ask him to deduce them for me. The only thing he was learning to identify was different strengths of coffee from various different coffee stains - this will hardly solve a murder! 

“But look at it John!” I exclaimed as I turned the library book over in my hand.

“Its obvious from the angle of the fading of the leather, that the man who previously took this book out lived on the seventh floor of an apartment block that faced the west!”

More creases appeared on John’s face as he frowned harder at the book. He let out an impatient huff and squinted.

“How can you possibly know that!?” He burst out. “Seventh floor? West?”

I dropped the book on the kitchen table and sighed loudly, running my hands through my hair. 

“Look, this book has been sat on a windowsill that sunlight comes through,” I gestured lines over the book,  “And from the angle of the fading, you can tell that the window must have been facing west.” 

John tilted his head, staring at my hands and the fade marks, “Right.” 

“And as a large a section of the cover is lighter, more sunlight must have been falling upon it, indicating that the window must have been higher than ground level - approximately seven floors higher.”

“But how can you be so certain that it was _approximately seven floors higher_?” He asked still.

“If you calculate per-inch of discolouration to the direction of sunlight-“

“Stop!” John sighed and shook his head. He rubbed his eyes and was laughing quietly. 

I frowned. _What was so funny?_

He looked back up at my face, still laughing lightly with a casual smile, all the previous confusion gone and a different look now occupied his features. He blinked disbelievingly at me.

“You really are quite extraordinary, aren’t you?”  He wondered about me. 

“I’m sorry?” _Where had this come from? A minute ago he was verging on angry at me._

“You see things that other people just don’t see, or wouldn’t even think of.” 

“Well other people _could_ see things if they bothered to look for them, or think…” I grumbled, but he ignored the tone.

“No, I mean, you understand things on a completely different level than us ordinary people.” He paused, still studying me, studying me harder than he had bothered to study the book. “Almost like you function differently.”

“High-functioning.” I told him. “A high-functioning sociopath, in fact.” I smirked at him like I was proud of it. _Well I am proud of it in a sense…_

_“_ A sociopath?” 

“Well I wasn’t exactly well known for my popularity and general feelings for other people.” 

John chuckled again. I huffed at him and went into the living room to sulk. I plumped down in my chair and drew my knees up to my chest to hide behind them, peering at him from under my curls.

John had picked up the book and was thumbing the edges, gradually pacing towards me and his chair as he watched his thumb disturb the pages.

“You may see the little details and facts, but do you see what everyone else see’s too?”

I frowned and raised my head.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s all well and good thinking outside the box, but surely it means nothing if you can’t think inside the box as well?” 

He sat down on the edge of the chair, holding the book up in his fingertips, looking at me. 

“I see this and I see the story, and the meaning behind the story, and how that made me feel or think, and why I like to read it.” He paused. I squinted at him, still not following. “The _ordinary_ things. So isn’t it just as important to understand _why_ someone chose or picked, or did something? Can’t that tell you just as much as understanding the details?”

My gaze drifted down from his. _Interesting… I had never considered…_

“Sentiment?” My eyes flicked back to John’s.

“Well, yeah.” He put the book on the table beside him, “Why people do things can tell you all kinds, can’t it? It’s not always about the ‘how’, in fact, in my experience, why usually comes first.” 

“Sentiment…” I mumbled into my knees

“It can tell you a lot about a person,” John answered, “Everyone is sentimental.”

“Oh, are they?” I sighed, stretching my legs out and falling back into the chair, letting my arms dangle over the sides. “How dull of them…” 

I stared at the ceiling and heard John stifle a laugh.

“Let me guess; you’re about to tell me you’re not.”

“Correct.” I replied, unmoving. John was still trying to hold his disbelief, I could almost hear him shaking his head. 

“You must be about _something._ ” 

“Sentiment is the chemical defect found in the losing side.” I sat up slowly. John frowned.

“What?” He scoffed. 

“The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment…” He continued to look puzzled. “ _Feeling_ things is a dangerous business. It weakens a person, sentiment is like a fog that clouds every corner of the mind, to thick to see clearly through, to be able to judge logically through.” 

John was simply observing me.

“So I do not burden myself with this fog, giving me the advantage with logical understanding.”

“So logic is more important than sentiment?”

“Absolutely. Sentiment drives people to do all sorts of insane things.”

“But _why_ is so often responsible for _how._ So understanding them both equally must be fundamental in your deductions?”

“You don’t have to _understand_ sentiment. You just have to know that it is there and what it does to people, how it factors peoples decisions; it’s good for little else.”

John’s eyes glanced away from me.

“How very… robotic of you.”

“Thank you…” I smirked at him. He held my eyes, unblinking. 

“But you’re wrong, y’know.” 

“No I am not.”

“You are. Being sentimental, caring; it can save peoples lives. I should know.” He got to his feet and moved towards the door. “If the lads and ladies in my battalion hadn’t cared for one an other, for me, if I hadn’t cared for them,” He paused, “Well, I would be dead right now.”

He clenched his fists at his sides before exhaling sharply and grabbing his coat off the door and pulling it on.

“I’m going out.”

He strode out and down the stairs before I even had a chance to reply. 

_What on earth was that about? Why did he just leave? Did my opinion offend him? Why? It’s my opinion…_

I stared into the empty space he had occupied, shrugging off his behaviour. _See, if you weren’t sentimental you would have been able to continue our conversation…_

About an hour after John had left, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs again. Not John’s footsteps. I rose from my chair and waited for the person to reach the door. It was Lestrade. He quietly stepped into the room, holding my notebook in his hand, tapping it with his fingers. I watched him as he briefly looked about before carefully putting the notebook on the living room table, trying not to disturb the stillness of the room. He stared at the things on the table and looked momentarily lost in thought. 

“Thanks, Sherlock.” He mumbled quietly to the notebook. “But next time; keep me informed sooner.” 

_Oh very funny…_ I said as he left without a sound. 

I went and picked up the notebook from the table. Several of the pages that had details to the case had been ripped out - taken for the case file no doubt. _Strange, why wouldn’t he just take the whole thing? Not like I need it anymore, he could have kept it out of… sentiment. Ugh._

The door creaked behind me. John had returned. He looked me up and down before shrugging off his coat. _He was still pissed off._

“John… um.” I cleared my throat as he hung his jacket on the door. “What I said earlier is my own opinion, and while I don’t expect you to agree with it, or understand it, I did not mean to cause you any… upset… by it.” 

John didn’t appear to be listening to me. He had moved into the kitchen and was putting the kettle on, his expression plain. I slowly walked into the kitchen.

“John..?” 

“Yeah.” He took a long, quiet breath. “I know. It’s… fine.”  He turned to face me with his cup of tea and nodded. 

“What’s that?” He asked, gesturing at my hands after a long moment of silence.

“Hm?” I forgot I was still holding the notebook. “Oh, Lestrade returned this when you were out.” 

“Right, shouldn’t it be classed as evidence now? Or something?”

“That’s what I thought…” I mused, “Either way.” I dumped the book on the table. “Case solved.”

I retired to the sofa for the rest of the day. John had bought a few papers from the shop so I passed the time by idly flipping through them, reading the occasional article that caught my eye. ‘ _Woman gets head trapped in railings outside hospital.’ Hmm there’s even a picture… people really are colossally stupid. In fact.. how did she even get into that position in the first place?_ I tilted the paper one way, and my head the other, trying to change the angle. _She really has outdone herself… set the bar a rung lower on the scale of stupidity-_

“You never did tell me, y’know.” John’s voice interrupted my reading.

I looked up from the paper suddenly. It was dark. Night had fallen. _When did that happen? It was only just two o’clock…_ John was sat at the table eating something and watching me. _How long had he been watching me for?_ He looked expectant.

“I’m sorry?” I asked, paper still held in front of me.

“About how you died. You never told me.” He ate another mouthful of food. “I know you are dead, people have told me of your death; but no one has explained how you died.” 

I crumpled my fingers into the edges of the paper.  

“Oh, right.” 

He watched me still, eyes wide and a patient air sat around him, like a child waiting to be told a bedtime story. 

I broke eye contact and looked back at the scribbles on the paper. 

“Drug overdose.”

_Well, murder, depending on how you look at it, murder by drug overdose. But that doesn't make any sense unless I explain the entire story to him…_

“Oh, right…” He thought about it. “What kind of drugs? Paracetamol..? You didn’t commit suicide did you?”

“What?” I frowned, “No!” I folded, _well crumpled_ , the newspaper and set it on the coffee table. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

“Opium.” I mumbled into my hands.

“Pardon?”

“Opium!” I repeated. John dropped his cutlery onto his now empty plate.

“Opium? As in heroin?”

“Yes.” 

John rested his elbows on the table and brought his fingers to his lips, studying me, looking almost, disappointed somehow. 

“You were a junkie? You?” 

“No. Well, not exactly.” I huffed. “It’s not what you think.” 

He raised his eyebrows and placed his hands back on the table.

“Then what is it?”

I ruffled my hair and huffed again. 

“Do you want my whole life story or something?” I narked. 

“Well I’ve got time.” He picked up the beer bottle from the table and took a swig, still watching me expectantly. I sighed. 

“When I was a teenager, I started doing various different C and B class drugs, until I met someone who got me into heroin.” I told him, “I used that for a year or so, drove myself to the brink of destruction before my brother had me, literally dragged, to rehab.”

John was quietly listening.

“I was in my late twenties before I started using on and off again, not as regularly or dependently, but occasionally… when it all became too much.” 

“When what all became to much?” John asked after a moment.

“This.” I pointed at my head, “My brain needs constant occupation, John, that is my frailty. And when it doesn't have it, when the crime circles are having a quiet week or two, and I am left to occupy myself - it’s too much!” I buried my face in my hands. “The only thing that shuts it all down, makes it all stop, is the opium.”

John pressed his lips together, looking as if he now saw me differently. The disappointment had left his expression and had been replaced with something else… a kind of understanding. 

“But it doesn’t make any sense if opium was responsible for your death. Weren’t you working on ‘The Changing Alias’ case at the time? Surely that was occupying enough for you not to need the drugs?” He pondered aloud, but shrugged it off, “Though, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never taken drugs, and I don’t know what your circumstances were, I guess…” He trailed off. 

“No, you’re right.” I told him.

“I’m right?” He picked up again.

“The case was enough, and I was fine, had been for a while, but,” I paused, “There was another factor.”

“Another factor? In the case?”

“No entirely different. A person…” I contemplated how to tell him the story without sounding like a complete idiot.

“Oh… _Oh…”_ John realised something. 

“Oh?” I looked to see what he was thinking, “No! Not like that…”

John looked utterly befuddled. 

“There was - well there is, he is still alive, still out there - a man called James Moriarty.” I began, “Criminal mastermind, genius, but dangerous. He runs most of the worlds major crime circles, and as I discovered more and more of his crimes, he found out about me. He didn’t like that I was unravelling all of his work, dissolving his networks, so he started contacting me personally. He would set me ‘puzzles’ and ‘watch me dance’ as I ran around the world solving his crimes. We met a few times, in person. The last time I saw him was when he came here, with the opium.”

John’s face was set with curiosity, so I continued.

“Jim Moriarty wanted any way to stop me. He found out about my addiction, taunted me with it, but I would always put up the fight, try and make him believe I was recovered, clean; but he saw straight through it.” 

“So he came here one day, knowing I was nearing the end of The Changing Alias case and he pushed me, played me for my weakness, left the opium on the table and dared me not to take it.” I scoffed a laugh at my own idiocy, “He ‘won’. He ‘beat me’… The genius brought down by a few dull thoughts and a syringe full of incredibly high potency heroin.”  

I stared at the floor and listened to the silence. Listened to John judging me and my frailty. _Idiot.. idiot.. idiot…_

“Jesus…” He breathed. “I um… I’m sorry. Couldn’t you have called someone? Mrs. Hudson? Your… brother? They could have taken it away?”

“Those are not thoughts that go through an addicts mind when you put drugs in front of them, John.” 

He exhaled and rubbed his neck. 

“No, course not, no.”

“So, consequently.” I rounded up my little tale, “I took the heroin and eventually passed out on this very sofa, never to wake up again.” 

John pulled a face and eyed the sofa. 

“Do the police know that’s what happened? Do they know about this, Moriarty criminal?”

“Yes and no.” I replied, “They know about Moriarty - my brother works for the government, well he is the government and he ‘knows about people like him’. The police keep tabs on him where they can, but they don’t know that he was the supplier to my death. All they know is that I died from opium overdose. In the eyes of my family, of the people who cared about me, my death was self-inflicted, just a junkie killed by his fix. The perfect story for Moriarty.” 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John said again.

“Why? It’s not your fault.” 

He looked at me pleadingly. I exhaled.

“Thank you anyway…” I mumbled. “I have had two years now to come to accept what a complete idiot I was, and think about Moriarty and his great web of crime, and you know what? In some ways, being dead is a relief, for I fear he and I were doomed to chase each others tails for all eternity, and this outcome would prove to be inevitable for me sooner or later.” 

“So you think he would have killed you eventually?” 

“Yes, I imagine so. Or I would have killed him. Eventually. Somehow.” I paused, a sly smile crept onto my face. “Oh, but if there were some way to taunt him now.” 

“Taunt him..?” John went quiet. “Oh hang on, no… Is this why you have been trying to teach me this bloody ‘Science of Deduction’ stuff so I can go after this Moriarty? Continue your dirty work? Avenge you?” He laughed.

“Yes, precisely John!” I replied. “Avenge me like a Shakespearean play! You be Hamlet and I’ll be the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

John laughed. 

“That’s Dickens!” He chuckled “You mean the Ghost of Hamlet’s father.” 

“Oh yes.” I remembered, “ ‘ The serpent that did sting thy father’s life now wears his crown ‘ “

_Hmm… Apt._ I thought a moment. 

“I just thought, perhaps, if I taught you how to observe as I do, then you could be my connection to the outside world.” I sighed, “But judging by your progress over this week I can see its probably not going to happen.” 

“Thanks!” John replied, mildly insulted, “Besides, even if I was good at the deductions, wouldn’t it be a little suspicious if I just moved in here and started turning into you?” 

“You couldn’t turn into me!” I returned the insulted tone. “There is only one Sherlock Holmes! Alive or dead…”

“Isn’t there just.” John got to his feet, taking his plate and his empty beer bottle into the kitchen. “But I do have a point.” He called from out of the room.

_Unfortunately, he did have a point. It would be more than suspicious is he started solving crimes with my help, people would see my work in it and start being suspicious of John, or if I was actually dead and - ugh, far too complicated to think about._

“Yes you have a point.” I muttered.

“Sorry? What was that?” John stuck his head around the kitchen door, a smile creeping onto his face, “Right again, was I? Twice in one day. Wow, I’ll have to buy a lottery ticket at this rate.” 

I cringed at his boastful attitude, even if he was joking. He returned a moment later with another beer. 

“I am sorry though.” He said. I rose to my feet.

“Don’t be. It solves nothing now and I am quite to terms with it.”

He gave me a small, sad smile and nodded, taking a sip of his drink. 

“Excuse me, John.” I said after watching him a moment. “I shall retire to my attic.” 

_Well that was… what was that?_ I reached the top of the stairs and quietly closed the door, laying on the wood floorboards in the darkness. I die of a self-inflicted drug overdose as a result of temptation from a psychopath and he sympathised with me? He may not be the best at deductions but he has his own way of seeing things, I’ll give him that. Perhaps he will be useful to me in a different way than I first imagined, his way of viewing the world could prove to be rather insightful. 

 


End file.
